


First Impressions

by RileyC



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, First Meeting, M/M, Speed Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sunshine304 asked for: An AU where Sherlock and John are speed dating--rather, they're at a speed dating event and meet. Sherlock's there because of a case/science/boredom/experiment and John does it because the therapist thinks it's a good and unconventional way to talk to new people. Funny, tense, the police barge in because one of the participants is a murderee--it doesn't really matter.</p>
<p>Fate, meet Destiny...</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Impressions

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
  
John Watson glanced at the speaker. “I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Your military service.” The tall, thin stranger pulled out a chair and sat down. “Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
  
John glanced around the restaurant in hopes of some means of escape. The organizer of the event was nowhere to be seen at the moment and all of the other attendees were in deep conversation with each other. Well, as deep as one could get within a four to six minute window of opportunity. _“You need to get out, John. Meet new people.”_ Even as his therapist suggested that and pointed him toward this event as something loaded with unique possibilities, John had known it could only be a disaster.  
  
“Ah,” best to be polite, of course, “it was Afghanistan, actually,” he told the stranger. “And I’m not gay.”  
  
The stranger regarded him steadily, almost unnervingly so. “Do you habitually introduce yourself that way, ‘Hello, I’m not gay?’”  
  
John stared back. “I only meant--Look, this is a speed dating event, and we’re both men.” The words were assembled in a perfectly sensible fashion. John was certain of that. That unrelenting stare, however, strongly implied he was barely one step up from babbling idiot.  
  
The stranger nodded slightly. “And do you have more of these succinct observations of the obvious? You could make a book of them. _Ice is cold. Knives are sharp. Fire burns_. Perhaps with a spot of haiku for variety. _The rain fell. I was wet. No umbrella_.”  
  
John felt himself begin to bristle and hastily got his temper under control. Perhaps turn the tables a bit, he thought. “Are you habitually rude upon meeting someone for the first time?”  
  
“Quite often, yes.” The stranger picked up the list of suggested topics and questions the organizer had passed out to all of them. “Sherlock Holmes,” he suddenly said and thrust out a hand. “What’s your sign?”  
  
Mistrustful of the man’s smile, John shook his hand. “John Watson. Ah…Leo, I think.”  
  
“You’re not certain when you were born? I’m a Capricorn. Are we compatible?”  
  
“Of course I know when I was born. And do I look like I follow Madame Zostra’s Zodiac Guide to Love?”  
  
Sherlock Holmes studied him intently once more. “No, actually you don’t. Did you make up Madame Zostra?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
John shrugged and winced a bit at the ache in his shoulder. When he looked back at his new acquaintance it was to surprise a flicker of avid interest in those sharp eyes. “It amused me,” he said, feeling a bit uncertain about everything and especially what made him such an object of fascination to this stranger.  
  
“Did it? Interesting.” Sherlock Holmes looked back to the list. “What’s your favorite color? Don’t say blue; everyone says blue. Why does everyone say blue?” He peered closely at John as though he genuinely wanted an answer. “Why isn’t anyone’s favorite color mauve or puce or, or umber?”  
  
“Aren’t mauve and puce the same thing?”  
  
“I don’t know. Are they?”  
  
“Cinnamon.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Cinnamon’s a nice color. Very warm.”  
  
Long-fingered hands steepled before him, Sherlock Holmes considered that comment. “Yes; yes, I can see that,” he said after a moment. His attention drifted then as he appeared to track something going on across the room.   
  
John craned his neck to look but only saw two men in what looked like urgent conversation with each other. “Friends of yours?”  
  
Another smile, this one more genuine. “I wouldn’t say that, no.”  
  
Before Sherlock Holmes could consult the sheet again, John took hold of it and scanned it. “What’s the last book you read?”  
  
“ _A History of British Serial Killing_.”  
  
“Ah…” Oh dear. John began to eye the exits once more.  
  
“There was William Palmer who, among other things, likely murdered his children for their insurance money. And Dr. Thomas Neil Cream, the Lambeth Poisoner. It’s rumored he confessed to being Jack the Ripper just before he was hanged but this is largely discredited. John George Haigh was alternatively known as the Acid Bath Murderer and the Vampire of London, and claimed to have murdered nine people, three more than he was convicted of. They all pale next to Dr. Harold Shipman—what is it about doctors?—who murdered at least two hundred and fifty and quite possibly more.”  
  
John held up a hand to stop the gruesome recitation. “Yes, I do see why you might have some trouble finding someone to hook up with.”  
  
Another smile, this one even more authentic and personal, and accompanied by a soft bark of laughter. “Very good. And what was the last book you read, Doctor?”  
  
Although he suspected he would be mocked as his answer would reveal a taste in literature that was neither high-brow or exotic, John said, “ _The Lost World_ , if you must know.”  
  
“Victorian adventure tales?”  
  
“I liked the movie,” John returned with just the most minute trace of agression. “Hold on,” he said as something suddenly clicked, “how do you know I’m a doctor?”  
  
“The same way I know you’re just back from Afghanistan. It’s what I do.”  
  
“Accost random strangers and guess their occupation?”  
  
“I never guess.” Sherlock Holmes hastily wrote something on a napkin and pushed it across the table to John. “Leave now,” he said as he stood up, all of his high voltage attention fixed on something across the room.  
  
“Leave?”  
  
“Now. Things are about to get a bit messy, Doctor.” Sherlock Holmes shot him a glance and flashed a sudden, excited smile at whatever he thought he had divined in John’s face. “Or perhaps you’d like to stay and observe,” he said with satisfaction.  
  
“Perhaps I would,” John said with studied nonchalance, while somewhere inside a less restrained voice was shouting, _Oh, yes, please!_  
  
Why that answer should please Sherlock Holmes—of 221B Baker Street, he saw as he glanced at the napkin—was a mystery John Watson couldn’t fathom at the moment. Something told him that working it out would be the biggest adventure of his life, though.  
  
He couldn’t wait to start.


End file.
